Girls’ Night In. Jessica Adams

life, let alone raw, the thought of it turned her stomach at a slightly faster rotation than the peanuts. ‘Stop rubbing your nose,’ Brett said, irritation in his voice manifest in the way he swirled the ice around his glass. ‘Go and blow it, for God’s sake.’

      Ladies Toilets. Haven. Peace and camaraderie. Hair products and perfume and mints laid out by the basins. An attendant handing out paper towels and a part-of-the-job smile behind sad (part of the job) eyes. Finty locks herself in a cubicle and sits there awhile. Her nose itches but there’s nothing to blow. She pulls the chain though there is nothing to flush. She washes her hands automatically and checks her reflection. If there’s sadness behind the toilet-attendant’s eyes, Finty’s gaze is underscored with a flatness. It shouldn’t be so. She should be having a wonderful time. She’s on a date. Being wined and dined. Whined at and to dine on foodstuffs she doesn’t like. But there’ll be sex too. That’s to look forward to. Though she’ll close her eyes and conjure Brad Pitt.

      ‘Gorgeous skirt!’ marvels a stranger.

      ‘Thanks!’ Finty replies, all smiles.

      ‘Nice bloke too,’ says the stranger’s friend, ‘but doesn’t he like his peanuts!’

      ‘Yeah!’ says Finty, wondering why she’s lacing her voice with a hasty approximation of affection, or possessiveness; and suddenly craving her own girlfriends desperately.

      Must call them. Just to say hullo.

      The entrance to the bar is the foyer of the hotel and, though Finty has both battery and strong signal on her mobile phone, she eschews privacy, opting for the payphone.

      ‘Hullo?’ Polly answers, with a voice suggesting outrage that there is such an intrusion on a night when she’s gathered her soul mates around her.

      ‘Hey!’ says Finty with commendable bounce.

      ‘Finty!’ Polly shrieks and suddenly the phone has been given to Sally, then Chloë, before all three attempt to listen and chat en masse. Finty says something about peanuts and her nose and an old man clad in plaid. But the girls are too eager to tell her that she should be there with them, on the third bottle of wine, now called vino-darling, with her stomach full of fancy morsels.

      ‘I’d better go,’ says Finty all breezy, ‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow. Have fun.’

      ‘We are!’ they sing. ‘We are!’

      Finty replaced the receiver and rested her head against the side of the booth momentarily before quite literally pulling herself together.

      ‘Young lady!’ It was the elderly American gentleman. ‘Your nose still itching?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘So you wised up and dumped the guy?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘Steak!’ The man proclaimed, ‘I’m going out to get me a steak. Aberdeen. Angus. Horse. I got to have steak – why don’t you join me?’ Finty smiled and shook her head. ‘More nutritious than peanuts,’ he said. Giving Finty a shrug and a wink, he had the doorman summon a taxi. Comforted that he knew about the peanuts, Finty returned to the bar.

      ‘It’s half-eight and she’s phoned,’ Chloë assesses.

      ‘Wonder why?’ Sally contemplates.

      ‘Hmm,’ Polly ponders, offering more wine and oven chips.

      ‘Any ketchup?’ Sally asks. Polly shakes her head and begs forgiveness.

      ‘Did Finty say where she was?’ Chloë asks. Polly shakes her head. The three of them had forgotten to ask. Unforgivable.

      On approaching Brett, who was very obviously cleaning his teeth with his tongue, Finty was pleased to see the peanut bowl had gone. But it was returned, replenished, just as soon as she sat down. Brett winked at the waitress. And then he winked at his girlfriend. His Action Man hand reached for the peanuts. Finty diverted her gaze for fear of hitting him and scanned the bar with a half-smile fixed to her face. She tuned in to the sounds surrounding her. Animated chatter. Music. Bursts of laughter. Clink and clank of glasses and china and ice. Brett munching peanuts, rubbing his salty fingers on his trouser legs. Her involuntary sigh was loud, but the silence between Brett and her was louder. Sally, Chloë and Polly had each, at some point, marvelled to Finty how wonderful silence between partners could be. Chloë had termed it ‘the ultimate in communication’. Polly had defined it ‘proof of compatibility’. Sally had proclaimed it ‘a seal of safety’. For Finty, it was as uncomfortable as the fake smile she was forcing upon her lips.

      It’s not even a loaded silence – of things left unsaid, or wounds being licked or issues being brooded over, Finty realized, it’s the result of there being very little to say. Soon enough he’ll say, ‘Another drink? Shall we eat?’ and after that, sex and sleep.

      ‘Another drink?’ asked Brett, ‘or shall we go and eat?’

      ‘What’s your favourite colour?’ Finty asked him, turning her body towards him, making an effort and really wanting to know.

      ‘What?’ Brett replied, because he really didn’t understand the question. He frowned at Finty and winked at the waitress who sauntered over with notepad and attitude.

      ‘Film!’ Finty tried. ‘What’s your favourite film?’

      ‘Another G and T?’ Brett asked her, now perplexed to the point of irritation.

      ‘Never heard of that one!’ Finty said lightly, nodding at the waitress to affirm her drink.

      ‘I’m going to the bog,’ Brett said with fatigue, as if to suggest it was a place far preferable to Finty’s company and Top Ten questionnaire.

      ‘Desert Island Discs?’ she implored in vain as he rose and left.

      What are mine this week? She pondered, enjoying how impossible it was to select only eight pieces of music. And then it struck her that she would really rather be on a desert island with no music at all than with Brett, even if he placed the world’s jukebox at her disposal. She glanced around the room. A couple, much her own age, sat locked in each other’s company; no limbs touching, just engrossed, obviously stimulated, undoubtedly in love. Near to them, a group of four women. A gathering, a girls’ night out – replete with the essential alternation between whispering, giggling and shrieking ‘No! Oh my God!’ Their conversation was shared naturally, their laughter and interaction unforced and obviously highly cherished. Finty didn’t want to be on a desert island; she didn’t want to be in the West End. She wanted, desperately, to be in Richmond. The waitress arrived with the replenished drinks. Finty glanced at her watch. It was gone half nine.

      ‘Do you think we could have some more peanuts?’ Finty asked. ‘A large bowl?’

      ‘No!’ PoUy laughed.

      ‘Oh my God!’ Sally shrieked, hiding behind her hands.

      ‘Oh yes indeed!’ Chloë confirmed. ‘And I’ll tell you something for free, it was weird at first – but bloody amazing before long.’

      ‘You old slapper!’ Polly said, clapping.

      ‘Sexual deviant, more like!’ Sally laughed.

      ‘I’m a bit pissed I think,’ said Chloë, theatrically forlorn.

      ‘You’d have to have been,’ Polly snorted, ‘to have done that!’

      ‘Better have some more vino-darling,’ Sally said, all doctor-like. ‘Here’s to you, you dirty, dirty girl!’ The three women raised their glasses and drank.

      There was signal and battery on Finty’s mobile phone but again she went to the payphone in the foyer.

      ‘Lady! Let me guess, you’re calling for the rescue services!’ the now familiar American voice called softly to her as she was about to drop coins in the slot. Finty turned and regarded him quizzically. ‘Hey! You could have the fire brigade drench him with water, the police